1.
It’s fucking odd to know you’re also just

another person. Makes sense, I guess.

You too drink cold Milo and spill coffee 
on whites. You too write bad poems

and read better ones. You too sing off-key

in the shower and totter off-kilter 
after three glasses of wine. You too

walk beside me, glancing up

into sun-glittered tree, squinting
to see the culprit:

a lone lorikeet, screeching.



2. 
It’s fucking odd to know you’re also

attracted to me. I mean, I like me

but how the fuck did we get to the point 
where you like me too? We both drink

cold beers and spill curry across white

tablecloth. We both write bad poems 
about each other and read better ones

in bed out loud as day whispers

through hotel’s curtains. We both glance up 
to see the culprit:

the sun singing, rising.